


Your Sick Comfort

by BloodyAbattoir



Series: Your Reality Is A Nightmare [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyAbattoir/pseuds/BloodyAbattoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was your twisted sense of comfort, and you'd be damned if you let it go again so easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Sick Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ValentineRevenge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValentineRevenge/gifts).



You lay there, sobbing into your pillow, tears soaking it, and making your mascara run. Your nose is stuffed from all your crying, and your chest hurts from gasping for air.  
  
Even as you lay there, the harsh words and insults they hurled at you swirl and dance around your head, accompanied by your memories of everything you've ever done wrong. It's all too much for you to bear. You knew you were a fuck up, but you didn't need it to run around your head. Not like this. All that sorrow and regret and rage has to go somewhere. IT can't stay pent up inside you forever. If it does, well, the results might just be more fatal than you could've ever predicted or wanted. Already your heart is aching and you can barely breathe. No, something has to be done about this, and now.  
  
Zombie-like, you reach blindly for your phone. You half want to scan your contacts and see if anyone is awake. But you know no one is awake, much less willing to talk to you. So you do the first thing that flashed through your mind, even before you even contemplated calling someone to tell them how you felt.  
  
Your eyes not quite focused, you pop off the back cover of your phone. A tap or two to the front made by shaky hands is more than enough to send the battery falling to the bed. But more than just your phone's life source falls to the bed.  
  
Your fingers reach out, grasping the small, thin, silver rectangle of metal.  
  
Below your battery, you had hidden a razorblade, It was darkened at points, from where it had been burnt by the candle you used to melt the shaver head that held it. It was barely large enough to grab onto properly, and it had holes down the length of it, which had been used to hold it in the shaver. It was very thin, and very lightweight, and you could bend it between two fingers with little to no effort. However, it was sharp, and easily hidden, and that was all that mattered to you.  
  
You placed it to your wrist, unable to see through the tears that welled up in your eyes, in a seemingly unending torrent. Then, you slashed down. You pulled your arm closer in reflexive shock, only to bring the harsh, cold blade slicing down into the soft white flesh of the underside of your forearm again and again.  
  
When you finally dropped the blade a few minutes later, your breath, while still coming in gasps as if you'd just run a mile, was actually getting into your lungs, deep enough that you no longer felt like you were going to faint, and your arm was stinging in protest, covered in dozens of deep gashes, and the blood was beginning to bead up. You lay there, looking at the crimson liquid that began to flow off your arm in rivulets, and a strange sense of calm descended on you. You realized that you hadn't done this in months and you missed it. As the blood began to spill onto your bedsheets, your tears slowly dried up, and a smile began to spread across your face.  
  
This was your twisted sense of comfort, and you'd be damned if you let it go again so easily.


End file.
